Loyalty
by lalalei
Summary: Mahad used his magic to keep the evil of the Ring at bay. The evil that made the Ring is another story.


Mahad had been careless in his rites, and he'd paid for it. One mispronounced syllable was all it took for him to be temporarily overwhelmed by the Millennium Ring, and his mind swam with pain.

He only saw snatches of what occurred at the village, but he had more than an idea of what had happened—though the instigator of it all remained a mystery. He saw visions of fire, of molten gold, imprisoned souls, and edges of tormented screams. In some respects Mahad felt lucky that it was so unclear; had it persisted in detail he'd surely vomit. The impressions he did see were bad enough.

The Ring, however, delighted in showing him the village's past—it seemed a haven for thieves and robbers, scoundrels of every sort. They had started building the Pharaohs' tombs and ended at robbing them, desecrating or selling whatever they could lay their hands on, and the treachery of it all ate at him surely as the Ring's fire did.

The privilege they had been given, only to turn on their king, was appalling, and in some visions their actions blended with what had been done to them. The Ring made it seem as if they had started the fires, brought the slaughter on themselves, lured the soldiers there with their own hands.

The Ring let him drink deeply, burning events and pieces of events gradually into his mind, and soon Mahad was torn in two.

At first Mahad found himself searching for why it happened, why it _had_ to happen, to justify what he knew was unjustifiable. The Pharaoh had given the order. The Pharaoh's word was law. They had stolen; they had killed, and the ritual to create the Items specified _evil_ souls were to be harvested—if they _weren't_ evil it wouldn't work, would it?

The Ring glimmered sharply at these moments, seeming almost to laugh. He shuddered and moved to remove the object, staring at its single eye in a new light. Instantly, his mind began to clear.

Even if the villagers _were_ misguided, wicked, _evil_ , they did not deserve what had been done to them. He came up empty, in the end, and his thoughts grew ever bleaker. Mahad returned the cord around his neck only because he had no other choice, and for the first time he'd felt conflicted in his loyalty to his Pharaoh, to his country.

There was no right. Pharaoh or not, impending invasion or not, hope for future peace or not, there was no right. The Items blessed their wielders with great power, but their creation was a blight, a curse. An atrocity of this sort could only lead to further pain.

But had the Pharaoh _known_ this was what he had ordered? Mahad couldn't tell who had carried out the command, and the guards he had seen in the visions were nowhere to be found. When he told Aknamkanon, and the Pharaoh immediately took ill, he could see in his eyes that the king had had no idea. And when the Pharaoh died pleading forgiveness, begging the gods to spare his son and country further pain, Mahad knew the man was innocent.

It made Mahad feel sick to think it happened; sicker to think that he had no idea who caused it. The perpetrator could be of any age, any gender, so long as they were alive 15 years ago.

Mahad's eyes fell to the Ring around his neck and his thoughts turned circular.

 _(It could be anyone you know.)_

The first suspect was the Ring's previous owner, who had passed on some time ago, but Mahad doubted the Ring's darkness would be as strong as it was were he the culprit—or, perhaps, _a_ culprit. It was entirely possible there was more than one to blame.

 _(It could be anyone you don't know.)_

Shimon, the Pharaoh's vizier, was around before Aknamkanon, and used to hold the mind-entering Key. If anyone could redecorate a mind to allow such evil it would be him, and Mahad shuddered at the thought. Did the kindly old man have a hidden heart of darkness?

 _(It could be anyone, Mahad.)_

Isis and Seto had joined the Pharaoh's court shortly after their Item-bearers had passed on, and they were around Mahad's age—but what their Items did gave him pause. The Necklace could see the past and future; the Rod could rip monsters out of people's bodies and directly control minds, which, he realized, would be useful in covering anything up.

( _Anyone.)_

But Shada and Karim were older, Aknadin older still. Any one of them could have done it, or researched it, or given the order. There were too many variables, too many what-ifs to consider, and not enough information to go on.

 _(For all you know, Mahad, it was_ _ **you**_ _.)_

It wasn't like he could _ask_. The Eye could read minds and capture souls; the Scales could judge his heart; the Key could unlock his mind and leave him open to the whims of the wielder.

 _(You saw people do horrible things and worse things happen to them and you can never talk about it or think about it ever.)_

And the Ring—the Ring could seal souls into objects and hone in on Millennium Items, not that it _would_ with his own magic sealed within to avoid its corruption. With its power stunted the Ring was useless for defense, and he knew whoever had committed those acts would have no qualms killing _him_ to keep the secret, as well. Mahad found himself at a dead end.

 _(Never ever ever ever ever-)_

The thought of corruption jolted him suddenly. No matter what those villagers had done, no matter who had slaughtered them, Egypt as a whole had to be innocent—perhaps even more importantly, the Pharaoh, Atem, was innocent.

 _(There are no innocents._ _ **All**_ _are wicked.)_

If he couldn't root out those hiding in the darkness, Mahad thought, he would protect the shining light he knew. He would ensure that no matter who or what accosted the kingdom, he would defend it as much as he were able.

 _(What if a threat comes from within?)_

The Items were a blight, but they had been forged to bring peace, and if it took wielding them to ensure peace that was what Mahad would do. He knew he could do nothing else.

 _(And yet you won't use the Ring to its full potential.)_

Mahad would atone, through guarding the Pharaoh, for the sins of the villagers, his own sins, and of those who had killed them—were they not, after all, the same people in the end, regardless of class? If he couldn't trust the court, or the people, or even himself, he knew he could trust the Pharaoh.

 _(You can't—)_

Mahad owed it to Atem to _try_.

That, at last, quieted the Ring, but his own mind was forever in a storm.

He wished he knew more, but the moment the sneering thief strode into the palace—heart pulsing with hatred, clothes stolen straight from the tombs, a holy beast to rival the gods at his side, veins thrumming with unholy darkness—Mahad wished he hadn't known anything at all.

The Ring around his neck shimmered in delight. _Here_ was a worthy host.

The thief had stolen from the Pharaoh's tombs, just like the villagers. He'd threatened the people, threatened the Pharaoh, attacked those he _knew_ were innocent, and Mahad knew he had to be stopped. He'd had 15 years to build up hatred and 15 years to plan, 15 years to arrange a pact with a god of darkness. Teeming with Zorc's influence and empowered by his own immeasurable hatred, Bakura was too far gone to listen to reason, to stop, to accept or consider help.

Perhaps, Mahad thought, death would bring the thief peace. He could only hope.

But in life Thief King Bakura swore deadly revenge on the palace and the world, and even at the cost of his life, Mahad would stop the thief and protect Atem. He wished Bakura had never needed to be stopped in the first place—but he _would_ , nonetheless, be stopped. No matter how powerful he was, Mahad would fight.

It was his duty to serve the Pharaoh, after all.


End file.
